


Burn

by shannonissatan



Series: We Are Not Gods [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: AHOT7, F/M, Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Torture, a bad guy dies for good, a good person almost dies, although it's a different type of immortal, and someone dies and comes back a few minutes later, gavin's got wings for starters, he is fire birb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9895577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonissatan/pseuds/shannonissatan
Summary: verb1.(of a fire) flame or glow while consuming a material."a fire burned and crackled cheerfully in the grate"synonyms:	be on fire, be alight, be ablaze, blaze, go up, go up in smoke, be in flames, be aflameIn a moment of self-sacrifice, Gavin gets taken. Ryan knows it's his fault, that if he hadn't been stupid before the job none of this would have happened. But it did. And now the crew has to get their golden phoenix back.





	1. Chapter 1

Gavin’s favourite part of a job has always been the getaway. Sure, the tension of stealth is fun, and the haul afterwards isn’t half bad. But the thrill of the chase, of gunfights down empty highways in the middle of nowhere, is always his top hit. Right now he’s sticking his head out the passenger window, shooting at a tail they’d acquired on the edge of the city. Damn Lost. Don’t they know who runs Los Santos?

Ryan is at the wheel, pushing the car as far as it can go. It’s a damn good make, a custom invention, made especially for heists like this. Safety features include hidden ammo stores in the back bench, ridiculously heavy armour, bullet-resistant tires, and rear suicide doors, all for the low low cost of one Matt Bragg. Top speed isn’t too bad, either, but it’s nothing compared to the bikes their pursuers are on, so Gavin keeps shooting and Ryan keeps driving.

“Hey,” Ryan says in an attempt to catch Gavin’s attention, elbowing his hip.

Gavin can hear him more clearly in his earpiece than anything. “Yeah, Ryan?” His voice comes through clear, if a little loud through his throat mic.

“I need you to get in the back seat right now.”

Gavin ducks in to give Ryan a look. Ryan is staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel so tightly it has to hurt. Gavin pokes his head out and discharges two more shots before dropping his seat back and crawling behind Ryan.

“Alright, on three you’re going to open the door and pull both of us out.” Ryan sounds far too calm as he looks out the window faced with a steep, rocky hill. “Gonna need a roll cage for the drop.”

“Just an excuse to get my top off and be dramatic?” Gavin teases, shoving a pistol in his waistband before popping open the buttons on his shirt.

Ryan doesn’t laugh. “Waited too long for a recharge,” he says quietly, barely enough to hear over the gunfire behind them, “and someone cut our brakes.” The dashboard makes a noise to indicate that the driver’s door is open and Ryan’s seatbelt is undone. Gavin nods and throws his shirt on the floor.

Warmth spreads down Gavin’s neck and melts along his shoulder blades, drips down his spine and seeps through his skin. It quickly grows into a painful burn, and all of a sudden he’s cramped, restricted to the small space of the back seat of a car. He’s used to doing this in open spaces. He smells leather burning as he stretches his wings as much as he can.

“One.” Gavin pats out the flame on the seat behind him.

“Two.” Ryan shifts towards his door and pushes it open as far as it’ll go with the wind resistance. Gavin grabs the latch on his.

Ryan doesn’t get much of a chance to finish his countdown before Gavin’s door flies open and he grabs his arm. He chokes as his headset wire catches on the door, pulling at his throat and dragging them a few feet until his mic breaks off and the transmitter goes flying. He watches as it breaks into a thousand pieces under the rear tire of the SUV.

Gavin hits the ground back-first, his skin tearing against the pavement. Through the pain he somehow manages to wrap his wings around Ryan, shielding both of them from the ground and potentially debilitating head trauma. As they roll, Gavin feels flashes of pain where bones break and a particularly sharp rock digs itself into the back of his thigh.

The pair of them tumble for half a minute, getting some terrifying air time off what has to be the world’s worst ski slope. When they finally come to a stop, Ryan is a little dusty and minus one shoe. Gavin, on the other hand, has several obviously broken bones in his wings and too much blood on his skin to classify as minor injuries. Ryan looks around and sees that the car, the beautiful custom heist car that cost a ridiculous amount of time and cash, has flown off the edge of the road and is rolling in a cloud of dust half a mile away.

When he looks back, Gavin has taken off his radio and pulled his gun out. “You’re taking these and running,” he says, holding them out with one hand. His voice is shaking slightly, but he’s fighting hard to keep his composure. “You’ll move faster without me and there’s no way they’re getting their hands on our radio frequency.”

Ryan recognises that tone. It’s the one he uses to sweet-talk people, to make deals go right, to get favours from anyone. Ryan feels uneasy with the thought of it working on him. “Gavin, I—”

“Ryan.” Gavin grabs him by the wrist and locks eyes with him. His hand is sticky with dirt and blood. “I’m not going anywhere, state I’m in. If we both stay and they know enough not to touch you, you could be dead for good. You try to run carrying me, they’ll catch us. Come find me when you’ve had a refill, yeah?” Gavin manages to smile, red on his teeth from a bite wound on the inside of his mouth. His landing wasn’t nearly as soft as he’d hoped.

It breaks Ryan’s heart to have to do this. Worse than that, it makes him sick. It feels so wrong, leaving a part of the crew alone and vulnerable, but he knows that Gavin is right. He’s a smart guy, smarter than any of them give him credit for, and sometimes he knows exactly how things are going to work out.

Ryan puts his hand over Gavin’s for a moment, then grabs the radio and his gun. The radio is busted from the fall, and the battery compartment is hanging open. Useless, even if he could wire up his mic. “We’ll start looking as soon as I get back to the penthouse.”

Gavin reaches out and pats his cheek. “Lovely Ryan, there you go.” He sounds a little out of it, and Ryan looks down to see a substantial puddle of blood growing around them. The tips of Gavin’s wings are already starting to smoulder. Ryan’s never seen Gavin burn before, but he has no plans to sit around and watch him bleed out just to feed his curiosity. 

Ryan stands up and looks to where they came from. A few of the Lost are making their way down a thin dirt trail on a milder part of the mountain. It won’t be long before they show up, but there aren’t enough of them to chase Ryan down and keep an eye on Gavin at the same time. 

He spares one last look at Gavin, who’s staring open-mouthed at the sun like it just told him the biggest secret in the universe. 

Ryan points himself northwest, almost directly away from the bikers, and runs. He’s dumb enough to sprint, but it’ll discourage them from coming after him if he gets farther faster. He doesn’t turn around when he hears an explosion behind him‒the car, maybe, or a bike caught too close to Gavin’s inferno‒but he stops to take a breather. It’s an hour and some to walk to the airfield, half that if he runs the whole way. The slopes and sandier parts of the desert will add some time, though. After he starts up again, it’s almost two full hours before Ryan arrives. 

The closest thing that isn’t tied down is a Maverick, and Ryan gives it a quick once-over before climbing in and firing up the engine. Everything they park here is always fueled up, so he’s not worried about that, and otherwise Jack takes damn good care of all their varying aircraft. He takes the long way, staying well under the radar and giving the military base a wide berth, partly because he’s afraid for his life and partly because he still has no goddamn idea how to communicate with control towers if he gets caught. Hell, he can barely hover the damn helicopter, but he knows enough to make it go forward and put it back on the ground and that’s good enough for what he’s doing with it.

Once he reaches the outskirts of the city, Ryan ditches the helicopter and jacks a car from a parking lot. It’s a piece of shit but it gets him where he needs to go.  He leaves it halfway on the sidewalk in front of the apartment complex, engine still running and door wide open. The street kids can take it and have some fun, or a couple of homeless guys can park it in an alley and sleep in it; it’s not like Ryan really gives a shit about the thing.

He only hesitates when he catches his reflection on one of the mirror walls in the lobby. He’s disgusting, with dark red patches all over his jeans, sand stuck everywhere, and in socked feet after losing his second shoe to the desert. He ditched his broken mic in the helicopter, and where it pulled against his throat is now a thick stripe of purpling bruises. The Vagabond paint job has been smudged and wearing off for days just because he’s been too lazy to wash it off. The stains from the paint are covered with a bloody handprint. 

For a reason he can’t quite explain, Ryan hides in the hood of his jacket before stepping into the elevator. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Ryan walks into the penthouse, covered in blood and two hours late and without Gavin, the one thing he’s least expecting is a hug. Some yelling, maybe, or Geoff waving a gun around at him, or Michael throwing punches. Definitely not Jeremy wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist and burying his face in his chest. Ryan stiffens up–a habit after a couple decades of not being able to touch people without killing them–but Jeremy doesn't budge. 

“Holy fuck, you’re okay,” Jeremy mumbles against his chest, and Ryan lets his arm fall over Jeremy’s back. He looks around to see Geoff typing furiously on a laptop, more disheveled than usual, and Michael pulling his earpiece out. 

“What the fuck happened?” Geoff asks, halfway closing his computer. “We heard you say something about not getting a refill in too long and then a crash and radio fucking silence from both of you.”

Ryan pulls Gavin’s shattered transmitter out of his jacket pocket and throws it on the ground, watching it slide across the hardwood and hit the far wall. 

“Well where the fuck’s your phone?” Michael’s turn to ask questions. Ryan doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his cellphone and shows him. The screen is more than a spiderweb of cracks; it's almost completely gone. Totally useless.

“More importantly,” Lindsay interrupts, “where’s Gavin?”

Ryan can feel the room looking at him. Jeremy has let go of him to get a good look at his face, and he seems to put the pieces together before Ryan actually says anything. 

“The Lost have him.” Ryan’s voice is rough, and he can’t quite tell if it's from the bruises around his neck or the tears he’s suddenly fighting back. 

He's said it. It’s real now. 

“Shit.” Geoff rolls up his sleeves and opens his computer again, clicking and typing away. His tattoos have gone to greyscale and faded like he’s had them a hundred years. Some of them he has, Ryan thinks, but that's not the reason for their lack of colour. That's all down to magic. 

“Where’s Ashley got Kdin right now?” he asks out loud, apparently just hoping that someone in the room has an answer. 

“Liberty City, I think,” Lindsay answers. She pulls out her phone and leans her back against the kitchen counter, tapping at the screen impatiently. 

“You think she’d be okay if we borrowed her favourite criminal genius for a few days?”

“I thought The Know was a news outlet,” Michael says, confused. He sounds nervous, but it’s justified. There’s not much he can do but wait until they find the right castle to storm.

“You’d be surprised at the amount of shady shit they’re involved in,” Geoff clarifies. “Do you think if I buy the plane ticket and pay for everything I can get away with stealing Kdin?”

Ryan’s still standing in the doorway, bloody and dirty and silent. Geoff looks over the top of his screen. 

“Ryan, relax. Gav’s a strong kid and we’re gonna find him in no time, ‘specially if we get Kdin on it.” When Ryan doesn’t move, Geoff turns to Jeremy. “Lil J, help him clean up. And get him a drink or something before he explodes into a cloud of dust.”

“Let's go, Ry.” Jeremy grabs Ryan by his forearm and guides him down the hallway. Ryan follows blindly. 

Jeremy opens the door to his room and pulls Ryan in, and before it's closed again Ryan is crying. Not full-on sobbing but quiet, teary hiccups that shake his shoulders and take away his breath. He feels pathetic, but he doesn’t have the energy to feel sorry for himself.

“Come on, strip,” Jeremy says, reaching up to help pull Ryan’s jacket off. “Try not to get any blood on the carpet. Sand I can vacuum, don't worry about that. I’m gonna go grab a couple of towels.”

Before Jeremy leaves, he stands on his toes and reaches up to give Ryan a kiss on his cheek. It's weird, this thing between them. Between all of them. Weird, and new, and different, and it makes Ryan feel so much worse and so much better. “Get in the shower. I’ll be right back.”

Ryan does as he’s told, desperately trying to hold back the ugly, angry guilt boiling up in his chest. He turns the shower too hot on purpose–it’s a distraction, really, just to have something other than his thoughts to focus on. The water that runs over his hair and skin turns a reddish brown as it goes down the drain. 

When the bathroom door opens and Jeremy walks in, Ryan mostly expects him to drop the towels on the counter and leave. Instead, he knocks on the wall of the shower and opens it a crack. 

“Grab the shampoo in the corner over there and sit down.”

“I can wash my own damn hair.” Ryan’s voice cracks.

“I know you can, but I need this just as much as you do. Sit.” Jeremy pulls his shirt off and kneels on the mat beside the shower. Ryan sighs and drops to the floor of the tub with his back to Jeremy. He's too tired to bother arguing, and Jeremy isn’t wrong about Ryan needing the attention.

Jeremy gets to work quick, pulling tangles out before starting to work the soap in. Ryan watches as the foam dripping down his chest goes from white to blue to purple as it catches the dye in his hair. 

“It's my fault.” Ryan reaches up and grabs his arm, curling in on himself. “I told him to jump out of the car. He bled out in the desert while I ran away like a fucking coward.”

“You're alive though, aren't you?” Jeremy stops with Ryan’s hair for a moment, moving his hands down to his shoulders. Ryan stays still, and Jeremy opens a hand over his heart. “Yep, still goin’. And Gav’ll come back like he always does, you know that.”

At this point Jeremy is pretty much just hugging Ryan, and Ryan leans into him. Jeremy doesn't seem to mind. “He told me to leave him. I could've drained them, fought them off, but he told me to leave.”

“Dude’s a quick thinker. And he's smarter than he looks. I’ll bet you anything that Gavin knew exactly what he was getting into as soon as you told him to jump.”

Ryan sighs. Jeremy pushes against him, just enough to get both their heads under the water for a second or two. Ryan must have gotten him soapy. Whoops. 

Jeremy goes back to silently scrubbing at Ryan's head, stopping occasionally to pull his hair into weird shapes or reach around and give him a kiss. God, it’s nice to have something like this again, even despite the terrible circumstances. 

The floor and Jeremy are both soaked by the time they’re finished, but it’s not like either of them really care. Jeremy makes Ryan stand up to rinse his hair out, and Ryan should really feel exposed like this, naked and still crying a little bit and scatterbrained and completely exhausted, but he doesn’t. If nothing else, he feels safe. He’s never trusted anyone like he trusts the crew.

Like Gavin trusts them.

And just like that, Ryan falls apart all over again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Six days. Nearly a week and still no sign of Gavin or the Lost or any leads as to where they could be, even with all the connections Geoff and Lindsay have throughout the city. Even the ocean looks eerily calm on the horizon. 

The whole crew is on edge, ready to pounce at any opportunity they have. As hard as she's been trying, though, Kdin hasn't come up with any good info for them. Most of the crew haven't even seen much of her for a few days, holed up in Gavin’s office and only emerging to steal Lindsay’s energy drinks from the fridge.

Ryan is surprised when he gets a text at four in the morning from a number he doesn't recognise, but it clicks when he reads the message. 

_ Need to talk to you. Bring snacks and caffeine. Looking for the bird boy is exhausting. _

He rolls his eyes and gets up–it's not like he could sleep anyways, the only dreams he’d been having lately were nightmares–making a quick detour to the kitchen before heading downstairs. 

Gavin’s office is a mess, and it always has been. An array of mismatched monitors, dotted occasionally with a webcam or console poking through a gap, lines a good part of the far wall. The rest of it is taken up by a tower of high-end computers that have been gutted and rebuilt into a monster of a machine that only stays up because it's crammed against the ceiling. Ryan almost doesn't see Kdin at first, but she turns when he closes the door. She's wrapped up in a huge blanket with a hideous print that blends in with the candy bar wrappers and empty coffee cups scattered over the desk and floor. 

“It's fucking freezing in here,” Ryan complains, rubbing his arms.

“Stand next to the computer,” Kdin suggests. “You’ll warm up in no time.”

Ryan decides not to stand by the computer, as when he walks near it the strong smell of burnt dust becomes very apparent. Instead, he pushes a bunch of dishes and trash onto the floor and drops a half-full pizza box and three cans of Diet Coke onto the new clean-ish spot on the desk. 

Ryan gets straight to the point because fuck small talk, really. “What did you need me for? Other than sustenance?”

Kdin gets up and walks around him, grabbing something off of a printer and rummaging around until she finds a stapler. “I’m gonna find something big soon,” she says confidently. From anyone else it would sound like wishful thinking, but Ryan knows better. Kdin’s not like the rest of the crew–she’s squishy and mortal and fragile, for one thing, but she's still touched by a strange magic. When Kdin says something is going to happen, it's going to happen, and sooner rather than later. 

Kdin holds out the papers, now neatly stapled together. “Lindsay told me you still haven't gone out for a recharge. Found you a guilt-free target.”

Ryan looks at the page on top. “Oliver DesMartain?”

“Mid twenties, accused by three unrelated kids of doing some pretty fucked up shit to them. His dad bought everyone in the court case and he got away without a scratch.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow. “So we’re back to the vigilante stuff? Thought that ended when you left for the east coast.” 

Kdin shrugs and holds the paper out farther. “Can't hurt to take one more asshole off the streets.” 

Ryan doesn’t think before he grabs the paper from Kdin. If he had, he would have put gloves on. 

Their hands barely brush when Ryan fumbles the pages, but his breath catches in his throat and his stomach turns over. His body leaves his brain behind as he reaches out to take Kdin by the wrist. His eyes lose focus and the edges of his vision go dark, all of his energy siphoning into his fingers and ripping Kdin’s life out through her skin. Breathing becomes trivial. His heartbeat turns to the crashing of waves in a hurricane. His head spins and makes him nauseous. 

As bad as it is, it feels good in a sick way, and Ryan’s brain catches up and latches on. His skin sings, he's a thousand feet off the ground, he has the strength of an entire army in his blood. He’s untouchable. It feels like forever, trying to peel his focus away from  _ more, I’ve been starving, I need more  _ and back into the realm of  _ stop fucking killing Kdin. _

In reality it's probably only a few seconds before Ryan jumps back and Kdin is on the floor, pale and breathing heavily. The paper flutters to the ground between them. 

“Shit, are you okay?” Ryan asks, wondering how the hell Kdin is even alive. She nods a little bit and blindly reaches up to the table behind her. 

“I’m fine,” she insists, struggling to pull herself up to her knees. “It's all good. Just need a drink.” 

Ryan steps away from her, keeping his hands behind his back. The addict in him screams.  _ One more second. You need it. She’ll be fine.  _

Instead of listening to the terrible logic his desperation is coming up with, Ryan walks a few steps to the minifridge by the door. It's been emptied of soda and energy drinks, but there's still some water bottles (the expensive kind, because Gavin’s a prick) on the top shelf. He grabs one and kicks the fridge shut. 

Ryan watches as Kdin pulls herself into the chair. By the time he gets back to her, he's wearing a pair of leather gloves that have lived in his jacket pocket over the last week. 

“I’m so sorry.” Ryan’s voice is small, and he keeps his distance. He slides the water bottle across the table and it falls into Kdin’s lap. 

“It's okay, Rye,” she says after chugging most of the water. “It was an accident. I’m not mad at you or anything. It’d be a good idea for you to go get that guy, though. The sooner the better.”

Ryan nods and waves vaguely toward the couch crammed into the corner. “Eat some food and sleep. There’s caffeine when you wake up. Keep working now and you'll be dead, even without my help.” He doesn’t look back at Kdin before he leaves, just leans down to pick up the paper and closes the door behind himself. 

Ryan plugs DesMartain’s address into his phone while he waits for the elevator, and the pin shows up a few blocks away. He doesn't bother with a car, just walks with his shoulders hunched and a hand over the pistol in his jacket. You can never be too paranoid in a city full of killers. 

The door is locked when he arrives, but it breaks easily with a solid kick. DesMartain is sitting on an expensive couch with his back to the door, watching an expensive movie on an expensive flatscreen. He turns at the noise, but Ryan is already closing in. A hand on his forehead and another under his chin, as much skin contact as possible, and there’s no hope for him.

Ryan is prepared for it this time. A cool numbness travels down his spine and all at once he accelerates to a hundred miles an hour. He’s hovering half a foot above the floor, energy pulses through his veins, his brain fills with smoke and light and honey and mint and gold. 

There’s something off about it, there always is–like a thousand bugs crawling underneath his skin. There’s TV static in his ears, something that makes the back of his neck hurt like he’s been stabbed, and he has to lock his knees and plant his feet before he collapses. Despite the pain and disorientation, it’s still the most addictive high he’s discovered in his life. 

For a second, Ryan’s vision changes. He’s looking up at himself, with bloodred eyes and a black bandana over his mouth and green and purple bruising around his neck, and he's terrified of the face he's looking into. He can feel the air leave his lungs and needles crawling up from his toes to his head, leaving behind a painful not-quite numbness that burns his entire body from the inside out. Ryan closes his eyes and shoves everything away, the pain and the fear and the reflection of himself through DesMartain’s eyes, and he waits until none of it pushes back anymore. He lets go and takes a deep breath as the man in front of him slumps over dead. 

Ryan’s phone chimes with another text from Kdin’s number. 

_ I found him.  _


	4. Chapter 4

Gavin's not quite sure how long he's been here. A few hours, a few days, a few weeks–it's hard to keep track with no windows and no clocks and no sleep. Even if they had left him alone for more than a few minutes, turned the lights out, shut off those godawful screams they insist are music, the pain would keep him awake. Pain in his arms and hands where they’ve been breaking his bones. Pain in his ribs from where they’ve been carving his skin and bruising him with baseball bats. Pain in his feet where he’s been nailed to the floorboards, on his face and chest from the enchanted fire the witches have been throwing at him, in his wings where they've pinned him against a sheet of plywood like a museum exhibit. 

It's not for information. For as long as they've had him here, the Lost haven't asked Gavin any questions. No sympathisers, no interrogators, no manipulation or coercion. They've been laughing as they stab and burn and bruise him, clinking beers and pouring dregs on his wounds. 

He recalls one of the bikers, with long greying hair falling into their glass of whiskey, tell him it was to teach them a lesson. To show Jones and Ramsey that they're not untouchable, that their secrets can get out. That people know how to hurt the immortal royalty running Los Santos.

And to be completely honest, that's the scariest part about it. 

Gavin is fading in and out of consciousness–a combination of a blow to the head with a heavy glass bottle and just plain exhaustion–when he hears a commotion from somewhere else in the building. Gunfire and shouts echo down long hallways and through his head. The woman in front of him stiffens as the lights go out and the PA system falls silent. She yells down the hall for someone to start the generator back up.

Gavin blinks. 

The door has been reduced to a pile of splinters and paint chips on the floor. The woman is at the open entrance, barely blocking the outline of black and blue leather. Bloodied hands curl around her bare forearms. 

Gavin's stomach turns. He blinks again. 

The building–a derelict school, maybe; he hasn’t really thought about it much–has gone silent. There’s a gentle hand on his face, and soft eyes in front of him that slowly fade from dark purple to light blue. 

“Gavin?” His voice is muffled behind a bandana. The white skulls and lines get lost in the folds of the fabric, swim in circles and get pulled under waves of silky black. They won’t stop moving, and it makes Gavin feel dizzy even though he’s all too aware he’s being held up.

“Gav, come on, wake up.” A small shake of his shoulders sends shooting pain through his body. Gavin instinctively tries to yell out, but it comes out as little more than the broken squeak of a small toy being run over by a semi truck. He winces at his own voice and sends another bolt of lightning through his nerves.

“Make it stop,” Gavin whispers. He sees an eyebrow raise in front of him, pushes against the pain and reaches out to where he knows Ryan keeps his gun.

“Make it stop,” he repeats, guiding Ryan’s finger over the trigger. “Please.” 

He catches Ryan’s eyes again. “Okay.” Still muffled by the mask he’s hiding behind, but even quieter than before. Ryan takes a few steps back and pulls the gun from his jacket. He squares up and aims between Gavin’s eyes. 

Gavin hears a crack, and all at once the whole world is on fire.

* * *

 

The screaming is the worst part.

Ryan knows what it’s like to be immortal, but he goes by a different scale. He gets more normal, more fragile, and recharges himself like a battery off of other people’s lives. For years now he’s been living on borrowed time, knowing that any day his luck might run out.

Gavin, though, is a completely different story. A phoenix can’t die, not like a person. A shot to the head, though the quickest way to spark the flame, still isn’t instant. Gavin cries out as the shot rings and a bullet lands in his forehead, the new most painful spot on his body. The wound catches fire and spreads out, reducing Gavin’s head to dust within a second. The flame runs down his chest and across his wings, but the screaming never stops. It changes into the roar of the fire, maybe, but there’s still something laced with pain and a cry for help that makes Ryan feel guilty.

He knows this is the fastest way for Gavin’s pain to stop, that Gavin even asked for it, but there’s so much of this that’s his fault. He made the decision to have them jump out of the car. He left Gavin for the Lost and their witches. And now he’s putting Gavin through the pain of a bullet wound and phoenix fire. 

Ryan doesn’t breathe until the black embers on the ground glow brighter, a sign that somewhere in there Gavin is putting himself back together. He lowers his pistol and clicks the safety back on. Ten thousand pounds of worries and anxiety lift off of his shoulders. They found him. 

“He’s safe,” Ryan radios to the rest of the crew, scattered around the building and picking off strays. “Break room on the second floor. Gonna need a few minutes.”

Apparently Lindsay isn’t too far away, because she shows up three seconds later dragging a half-dead biker along the floor by his collar. She spots the pile of ashes on the floor and looks up at Ryan. 

“Need a top up while we wait?” she asks, holding the biker out like she’s offering Ryan a piece of candy. 

Ryan shakes his head. “All yours.” He fights to keep his voice steady. 

“Cool.” Lindsay shrugs and kneels on the ground, tips the guy’s head to the side and casually rips his throat open. She’s not quite elegant when it comes to feeding, as is apparent by the bloodstains on nearly everything she ever hunts in, but it gets the job done. Within a minute she’s wiping blood off of her chin and tossing a dead body out a shattered window just to hear the crunch when it hits the concrete. 

“How long does this take?” Ryan asks, pulling a mostly intact chair away from the wall to sit on. He’s quiet, cautious, as if Gavin can hear him. He stares at the ashes. The pile seems to be growing. 

“Few minutes, I think.” Lindsay walks over and rests her hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “Been a while since the last time I was around when he burned. Goes a lot faster if you’re not watching the whole time.”

Ryan sighs and presses the side of his face into Lindsay’s arm. She runs her other hand through his hair and pulls his bandana down off of his face. 

“He’s been through worse, y’know. Made it out just fine. He’s a lot stronger than he seems.” Lindsay kisses the top of Ryan’s head and touches his cheek. He feels blood streak across his skin, but he doesn’t really care. He’s already covered in it.

“You hang out here so he doesn’t wake up alone,” Lindsay says. “I’m gonna go round up everyone else. I’ll send someone in with clothes for Gav in a couple minutes.” 

Ryan nods and feels Lindsay squeeze his shoulder before she leaves. Her voice comes in through radio static a few seconds later. 

“Geoff, finish whatever the fuck you’re doing and grab my backpack out of the truck. Everyone else get upstairs, keep the west hallway clear.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A chorus of Geoff and Michael comes over the comms, then laughter from both of them. Ryan relaxes as the crew start up their usual radio chatter, bantering about who Lindsay’s favourite is and some noises from Jack when she hits her shin on a low table and Kdin’s laughter from where she's listening in back at the apartment. 

There’s a gunshot from somewhere out in the hallway, then a sigh from Jeremy and grunts of pain from a biker. 

“Man, I really fuckin’ liked this shirt,” Jeremy complains over the radio, audibly struggling. “Ah well.” Outside, Ryan hears someone choking and gurgling. A few moments later he sees a pool of blood creep past the doorframe and a limp hand wave at him just above it. 

“Hey, Ryan,” Jeremy says, putting on a character voice. Ryan can see his sleeve poking out as he pulls the corpse’s other hand out and starts clapping them. 

“Jesus Christ, Jeremy, quit fucking with the dead guy.” Ryan laughs for the first time in a week. Jeremy peeks his head in and smiles. 

“Wait, Lil J’s doin’ what?” 

Ryan spins around to see Gavin curled up on the floor, wrapped up in a cocoon of his own wings. He’s quiet and isn’t moving much, and he’s only barely opened his eyes. He moves to cover his face as the lights flicker on and Ryan hears Michael’s little cry of victory over the radio at being able to fix his own destruction. The speaker system crackles and Freddie Mercury’s voice plays softly through the hallways as Kdin claims it for herself. 

Ryan hears someone approach behind him, then Geoff’s voice beside his head. “Hey, Gavvy,” he says quietly. Gavin whines in response.

“Come on, buddy, can’t sleep ‘till you put some clothes on.” Geoff steps closer, reaching into Lindsay’s backpack. He pulls out a grey sweatshirt about three sizes too big for Gavin and a pair of pyjama pants that probably belong to Michael. Gavin flinches a little when Geoff grabs his arm to sit him up. 

“Don't worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Geoff lets go and holds out the pyjamas as Gavin rubs his eyes. He looks a little like a toddler who just woke up from a nap, except with significantly more hair and feathers. 

It’s odd, seeing Gavin after he burns and comes back. There’s always something a little off about him. His eyes are so yellow they’re almost gold, fading out to a pale green around the edges of his iris. Ryan can see his ribcage under his skin, even as he curls over to pull the pyjama pants on. He wonders how long Gavin's gone without eating–days, maybe, and the bikers may have even taunted him with food. The thought makes Ryan uneasy.

Gavin folds his wings against his back and they melt into his skin with an odd sizzling sound that Ryan has never quite gotten used to. He gets tangled pulling the sweater on and Ryan can see the burn marks along his shoulder blades, his skin healing almost as fast as Jeremy’s until nothing is left but thin white lines. 

“You good to go, Gavin?” Ryan smiles when Gavin looks up at him and nods. Geoff claps him on the shoulder and helps him up before leaving, and Ryan can see him pull Jeremy into a loose headlock as he walks out the door. 

Gavin shuffles over to where Ryan has stood up and drops his head on his shoulder. One hand finds its way out of the oversized sweater and he wraps himself around Ryan's arm. 

“Thank you,” Gavin mumbles, leaning most of his weight on Ryan. Ryan's not quite sure what to do with his hands, being covered in blood and all, but Gavin is taking none of his awkwardness and pulls Ryan's arm around his shoulders. 

Ryan wants to say it was no problem, not to worry, but he can't. It was heartbreaking to knowingly leave Gavin alone to die, but to be the one pulling the trigger was so much worse. 

“Let’s go,” he says instead, tugging Gavin along. The hallway is empty and Gavin is lagging behind, so Ryan tells him to let go and scoops him up bridal-style. He feels Gavin's small smile against his shoulder when his arms curl around the back of Ryan's neck. Ryan is fully aware he's being manipulated, but he continues anyways. Gavin’s allowed to be demanding right now.

Gavin falls asleep in the back seat, his head on Jeremy’s shoulder. Jeremy is holding his hand, absently drawing circles on his palm with one finger and staring out the window. Everyone is exhausted, and Ryan can hear Jack and Michael talking over the radio to stay alert on their bike patrol around the truck. He's taken off his mic, because his throat is still sore from the bruising, but he's left the earpiece in to make sure nobody's dropped dead.

It's not long before they reach the penthouse, and Ryan lets everyone out before he goes to the garage simply because it would be a challenge to get a half-asleep Gavin up two flights of stairs to their private elevator. By the time he's parked and made it inside, someone has dragged Gavin into his bed and Kdin has passed out in a heap of blankets on the living room couch with her head in Lindsay's lap. 

Geoff is laying on the kitchen counter with one hand over his face and the other dangling a half-full glass over the tiled floor. His jacket is on the floor and his sleeves are rolled up, and Ryan can almost see colour fading into his tattoos as his stress melts away. 

Ryan walks up to Geoff and steals the glass from his hand, downing it in two gulps before Geoff has any time to react. It’s terrible, just straight whiskey, but Ryan knows it's enough to get him tired enough to fall asleep. Geoff complains vaguely at him, but Ryan refills the glass and shoves it back in his hand to pacify him. 

Ryan chases the whiskey with orange juice straight from the carton and hears someone grumble about it before he makes for his bedroom. In the eight feet from his door to his bed, he manages to strip off all his dirty clothes and flops on top of the blanket in nothing but his underwear. The alcohol barely has time to kick in before Ryan passes out. 

Everyone is home. Everyone is safe. 

It’s the first time Ryan’s had a peaceful sleep in weeks. 


End file.
